


Four Stages of Deserving

by Aspidities



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: BDSM, F/F, Impact Play, Office Setting, Paddle, Plot What Plot, Riding Crop, Smut, Vibrator, kink as therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 01:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13330476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspidities/pseuds/Aspidities
Summary: @Kendrene gave me a prompt consisting of ‘BDSM office boss/secretary setting with Kara as the bottom and Cat as the top’  essentially and I wrote that because I’m easily convinced into smut. Have at~





	Four Stages of Deserving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kendrene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/gifts).



First, her hands.

She runs them over your neck and puts her thumbs in the little dip in your clavicle, drags it past your heart. Her nails are swift and they pinch so sweet, but her touch is tingle-pain beyond your ability to keep silent like a good girl so you gasp and _gasp_ , and bite your tongue, and everything is red with lust and copper-tasting. Her hands toy with you, taunt you, lift your chin. Make you watch while she strokes your thigh. Make you take an extra for flinching when she lets it fly.

How wicked those small palms. When you have all the strength in worlds beyond, and she only those tiny hands. How does she strike you with such apocalyptic capacity. How does she _dare_.

But you’re bucking and eye-rolling in disbelief at those small hand prints. The red on your sun-kissed, well-loved skin. Your skirt raked up, the lining torn and ragged. It’s times like this you wish you could wear the tear-resistant fabric of your red and blue uniform around her, wish you could let her take out all the fury those hands could muster without fear she’d ruin your expensive work clothes…but if you did that she’d never touch you like this. Supergirl doesn’t belong here, with all her goodly duties.

No. This is _Kara_ that needs this. This heat. This nastiness. It’s Kara, and only Kara, here, writhing on the floor while Cat Grant presents her boot to be kissed. It’s Kara that drags her tongue up the fine Italian leather. You’re lost and you’re whole, and you’re a single, slavering object that begs for more while she caresses your cheek with her shoe like you’re an insect.

And you are.

“Drop.” She tells you, silken and steel. A voice not to be disobeyed. So you do, all fours. You know the game here. It’s an old game but it’s new to you, and even though she is the master player, you’re learning all the moves, every time. You like to think you’re a good learner.

She puts her boot on your back and presses down and you kiss the floor. She uses her heel to lift your cunt up like a car jack and tells you: “Good. Stay.”

She arranges your skirt over your ass and coos over the marks she’s made and you hiss through your teeth as you hear her open her drawer for the second part. The crop. God, the crop. You hate it and you love it, and you yearn for it as much as you fear it….and the anticipation is killing you with a thousand tiny daggers all along your skin. But no, that could be the tingling as the leather tongue kisses your skin, slipping between your thighs. She told you once that the tip of the riding crop is traditionally called a ‘keeper’ by hunter horsemen, and her face sparkled in the way that she does when she’s enjoying teaching you something, and you let her go on speaking while you memorized the way her eyes crinkled in delight and leaned your cheek against her thigh.

She runs the ‘keeper’ between your thighs now, and its soft, dragging on your skin, prolonging the involuntary twitches and shudders until she’s satisfied you’re fearful and aroused enough. She brings it to stroke your clit, smearing your own wetness across the thick leather until it’s damp and coated, and you’re shaking on the floor. The barest of featherlight touches: slow, sensuous glides. She takes her time. One horrible and yet wonderful thing about older women: they take their time. There’s no rush for her…you’re there for the taking, after all.

Then she offers it to you, pressing it to your cheek, and commands: “Kiss it.”

You press your lips to your own scent and inhale, and do it again until she withdraws and seems satisfied, but then she lunges back and the sudden strike to your inner thigh is quick like a cobra bite. You rear up and yell, and she pushes you roughly back down, instructing once more.

“Count.”

Breathless, whining already, you nod. “One. Thank you.”

She nods, curtly, and gives you another, this one on the curve of your ass, just where it meets the thigh, and it stings so sharp you feel your eyes water, but your cunt is gushing and your body is jerking with need. You gasp out the required count and the gratitude, as she lays another right along the groove next to your labia, and there are bright stars behind your eyes as if you’re back on Krypton. She knows how to bring those fireworks on…knows where the matches are kept and the fuses are wired.

By the time she’s letting it hit your pussy you’re screaming. “Six! _Nnnfuck_ , fuck, thank you!”

You’re on fire and your sex is sobbing and you’re squirming on the floor under her while she flails your cunt with unreserved, cool malice, destroying you and yet teasing out the savage pleasure under the lancing steamroller of pain. When she finally lays one on your clit, you explode, jerking up and babbling nonsense while cum pours out of your cunt and you convulse and spasm uncontrollably. You’re not sure if it was an orgasm, or merely your pussy begging for no more, but you do your level best and whimper out: “T-ten, thank you…!”

Third is the paddle.

While you’re making a sodden mess of the tiled floor and screaming loud enough for the whole building to hear, she’s gently-but-firmly paddling you red and sore, all over your ass and down your thighs and back again like a percussive rainstorm. The paddle has a heart cut out in its wooden frame and it leaves little perforated hearts all over your ass cheeks like apologies, but the kind you’d only accept from her. When she’s done with that, she kneads the prints in with her delicate fingers, like the cat she’s named for, and makes you cry as she sighs in approval.

“My good girl. My good, _good_ girl.”

You’re whimpering and keening, unable to be cogent or even remember your own name. You couldn’t save the world right now if someone begged you to, because she’s too busy saving you. Building you back up into the woman you need to be…by pinkening your ass and making you cry like a child. You know all this intrinsically; it doesn’t need to be spelled out for you.

The fourth is the vibrator, the big Hitachi wand she keeps in the sacred drawer where the paddle, the crop, and her selection of fur-lined handcuffs live.

The first time you saw it you made fun, rolled your eyes. “You know sex toys have evolved beyond _Sex and the City_ , Cat.” You teased, hand on hip. “Really showing your age, there.”

Cat only looked at you, brow arched, and you gulped a little, but tried not to let her see. “I may be old, but some products remain quality year after year, little girl. Let’s take it for a test drive and see if you want to add a new Amazon review.”

And indeed, you did. Five stars. 

Now it comes out at the end of all things, and it scares you more than the paddle and the crop combined. You quiver and shake, and watch her turn it on and lower it between your legs, and flex your fingers trying to hold yourself still. “Am I good enough?” You finally ask, when you can’t bear it any longer. “Do I deserve to cum?”

“You’re always good enough,” she soothes, and her voice is a purr that melts the anxious weight from your star-born bones. “You’re always my good girl.”

The wand begins to brush against your oversensitive labia and you squirm, wanting to shrink away from the pleasure, but her hand is a firm weight on your back and she keeps you there, keeps you in the place of worship, and gradually the fear takes its teeth from your heart. The fear that you’re not capable, the fear that this is weakness, that this is undeserved….its not gone but it’s receding as she lets you rock and glide against that buzzing tenderness between your thighs, begging in soft little dove cries that you hardly recognize as your own voice.

“Please,” you say over and over, and you don’t ever stop. “Please, oh please, please, God, _please_ …!”

And she knows what you need.

She runs her hand up your spine and her kiss at the back of your neck is hot and sweet, as the wand nestles into your gushing cunt and presses down hard. “Cum for me, little girl.”

And finally, you do.

Gasping, quaking, screaming in silent jarring busts, you come undone below her hands and the slick flows down your thighs and makes a mess of you, as you tremble to be so new, so unbound. So pure, and so whole. Held together by her hands and melting under her touch.

When you finally pull yourself together, she’s helping you clean up with a moist towelette and apologetically glancing at the clock. “You know I hate to rush,” she says, tucking your hair back into place as you rise and pull your skirt back down, wobbling a bit. “But I have that meeting with the investors in twenty minutes. And you need to get back to work, too.”

So you give her your best ‘bright sunshine’ grin and straighten yourself a bit more, as best you can. “Aye, aye, captain.” And you salute dumbly, feeling woefully inadequate, but she only snorts and blows you a kiss as you walk on unsteady heels back towards the office, wishing like hell it was at least closer to five.

The day, as it is, is already pretty much shot.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [ Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bitterbones87) for sneak peak updates, BDSM nonsense and wlw trash


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